


Cliche

by softcronch



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Office Romance, Other, Slow Burn, gender neutral reader, self indulgent TRASH, trash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-08 21:17:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15938480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softcronch/pseuds/softcronch
Summary: You've just gotten a job. You've just moved cities. You've got work, and you've got your coworkers, but meeting people is hard. So you get Tinder. It doesn't really help you meet anyone new.





	Cliche

**Author's Note:**

> this is complete self-indulgence. i've kept the reader-character as gender neutral as possible. i fully recognize the pat gill portrayed in this fic is not Pat Gill. please don't tell the real Pat Gill abt this or i'll have to shoot myself into the heart of a dying star and it'll be a whole thing.

You’re a little drunk, the night you submit your application. You didn’t initially _ intend _ to get drunk when you poured your first, second, or even third glass of wine. Just, it makes the whole scene a little more relaxed. Sipping your favorite sauvignon-blanc, you can navigate the Vox Media website like it’s any other late night in at home;  _ The Office  _ reruns on in the background, the air conditioner on high so that you can justify wrapping a blanket around your legs even in late August, and the disappointing remains of your homemade meal reduced to crumbs on the coffee table beside you. 

You’re good at justifying things to yourself. You’ve always been like that. You used to think it was an indication of pure selfishness, but now in your mid-twenties you see it as a self-preservation tactic. It’s not like you’re making self-excuses for a narcotics dependency. You’re not hurting anyone. You’re not even hurting yourself. So it’s okay, you figure, to justify a few extra glasses of wine if they’ll help garner your courage. 

“It’s either this or back to retail,” you mutter, a grim ultimatum. 

You scan the application one last time, then reread your resume, and then your cover letter. It all looks really good, if you’re being honest. Because you’re good at this stuff. You know how to walk that fine line between professionalism and charm, and your cover letter is a solid reflection of that. Hell yeah, you’re charming as fuck. Grinning, you empty your wine glass.

You kiss the tip of your pointer finger before you bring it down on the trackpad. And then it’s gone. It’s not the first application you’ve sent that month (not even the first application of the day) and  _ jesus _ are you getting tired of the process. Your nerves can’t handle this any better than they handled retail. 

You kill the bottle of wine. 

\---

The responding email comes a week later. You read it over the moment it comes in, right after a shower. You’re wrapped in a towel, dripping steadily onto the bath mat, the steamy air almost too dense to breathe. It takes you twice as long to type the reply on your phone’s foggy, unresponsive screen. You don’t risk waiting until you can get onto the computer; the hiring rep for Vox Media wants to schedule a phone interview, and you aren’t going to keep them waiting. 

\---

You move to New York. 

You’re excited, but sort of terrified. You figure that’s a good thing. New beginnings are supposed to be scary. 

\---

You take two trains and walk three blocks to reach the Vox building. You make your first blunder six seconds inside the door, when you ask the person at the front desk which floor Polygon is on. They gesture to the plain-as-day signage overhead, which you probably should have seen for yourself. You hate being a pest to customer service people. 

The second blunder is two seconds after that, when you try to walk away from the desk without signing the security sheet. You’re given an ID card on a nondescript lanyard. It bears your name, your title, and the photo you emailed upon their request. Looking at it now, you wish you’d taken a selfie specifically for the occasion, instead of snagging one from instagram. The receptionist smiles and wishes you a good day. 

“You too,” you answer, feeling like every New Kid in every 90s high school movie. The elevators are down the hall and to the left, you’ve been told, so that’s where you head. You string the lanyard around your neck, feeling silly. Does anyone else actually wear their badge? 

It’s late morning. Almost eleven. Seems weird not getting in early, but you reread the email from Christ Grant three times before leaving your new apartment, and once more on the train. He definitely said eleven.

You’re bouncing on your toes, watching the lights on the elevator, absently humming to the Glass Animals track playing in the lobby. This part of the building must not see much traffic, not at this time of day. You’re expecting to have the elevator ride all to yourself. A little extra time to check your reflection in your phone’s unlit screen. One last chance to sniff and confirm you remembered your deodorant. One last quiet moment for anxiety-brain to whisper doubt in your ear. Maybe you should take the stairs. 

In one almighty  _ whoosh _ , the cacophony of traffic invades the lobby. You look down the hall, see the receptionist lift their head. They raise a hand to say hello, then quickly go back to work. The security sheet goes unmentioned. 

“Morning,” says a voice to the receptionist. Rushed, sort’ve breathless, like they’ve been in a hurry. In under ten seconds they bypass the security desk and round the corner. 

Their footsteps are quiet, for someone so tall. You eye their black leather boots and wonder if they’re more lightweight than they appear. You’ve seen those boots on streams before, featured in twitter selfies, and you’ve always wondered where he found them. They were either a lucky thrift store find, or the sort of footwear only designed to _ look _ old. You wonder how long he’s had them.

And now you’re wondering why it’s so hard for you to just look someone in the eye and say hello. He’s certainly seen you standing there, seen your shiny new badge and your body language that says: I’m Pretending I Know What I’m Doing And I Just Need Everyone Else To Pretend They Don’t Know That I Don’t Know What I’m Doing. 

“Mornin’,” you say. You give that stupid sort of smile, the one people give to strangers when they pass by in a narrow hallway, that mashing of the lips and a vague upturn, which squashes your cheeks and never comes close to reaching your eyes. 

Patrick Gill, the latecomer in the leather boots, pushes a hand through his hair like a habitual tick. You’ve seen him do it a thousand times. It has a different effect up close. 

“Hey,” he responds. He reenacts that same dumb smile, and you notice how it makes his eyes crease at the corners, almost like it’s real. “You on your way up?” He tucks a pair of white headphones into the side pocket of his bag, looping them around four of his fingers to keep the cords tidy.  

You adjust the strap digging into your shoulder. Your laptop is starting to feel heavy; you never had to carry it on a commute like this before. “That was the plan,” you tell him, with a nod to the elevator door. “I dunno what’s taking so long, though.” 

There’s just the one panel on the wall, only one elevator for the whole building. The upper button remains lit, with no internal sounds to indicate that the elevator is in motion.

Patrick frowns at the glowing orange button. He does what any person would do, and presses it again. There’s no change, but he probably wasn’t expecting there to be. 

“Maybe we’re doing it wrong,” you say. “Maybe it’s like hippogriffs, y’know? And we’ve got to, like, bow to the elevator first.” You fear for just a second that you should just shut up, and not say stupid shit to the guy just trying to get into the office. 

He blinks at you from behind his glasses. Once, twice, and then he allviates your fears with a broad grin.

“I would, but I think I threw my back out trying to win over the subway door on my way here,” he says. He hisses through his teeth, braces a hand on his lower back, like it’s still giving him trouble. 

You hum, look him over. “Dang,” you say. “You’re old, then, huh?” 

As he sputters into the purest of surprised laughter, the sounds of mechanical workings fills the hallway. You laugh along with him, because  _ fuck _ . You had a fifty-fifty chance of him being offended. When the elevator doors open, you’re both still chuckling. And you feel good. You made him laugh. You start to feel like things might be okay.

The reason for the hold-up is clear right away. A man wearing Carhartt overalls and gloves is playing cattle-herder to several stacks of bright orange office chairs. Stacked one on the other, they brush the ceiling of the elevator compartment. He must have been wrestling those chairs inside for quite a while, hammering on the Door Open button until he was finished. 

“Oh,” says the man in overalls. He blinks at you both. “This isn’t the basement.” 

“No,” Pat says, agreeably. “But go ahead, we’ll wait.” 

It’s very nearly eleven, now. You find yourself nodding along with Pat, even as you check the time on your phone. 

The man with the chairs shakes his head. “It’s gonna take me a minute to get these unloaded again.” He pats the seat of the nearest chair. “Better just squeeze in. I’ll head for the basement once you get where you’re goin’.” 

It’s not a particularly spacious elevator. You eye the space not otherwise occupied by chairs or the barrel-chested workman, and there’s not much there. 

Pat looks down at you the moment you glance at him. He shrugs, you shrug. The man in overalls holds the door. 

There’s some needless apologizing, some nervous chuckling and, with only a moment’s delay, you wedge yourself into the corner and watch the doors slide closed. You’ve managed, through some unspoken, cooperative arrangement, to share the little space without pressing too far into one another’s space. Pat leans against the wall beside you, holding his bag against the front of his hips. He could have faced front, kept you at his back, but he didn’t. 

Pat offers you his left hand and a tired smile. He’s got circles under his eyes, the color made deeper by the poor lighting of the elevator. They’re covered pretty well by his glasses. You wonder if that’s intentional. 

“Sorry,” he says, which is a weird way to initiate a handshake. “I saw your badge and everything, but I’m an idiot in the morning. I’m Patrick Gill. You’re the new hire?” 

You place your hand into his. You tell him your name. You tell him yes, it’s your first day. 

“Awesome,” he replies. “Guess I’ll be seeing you around, then.” 

His hands slide into his pockets. 

The elevator rumbles under your feet. 

“I’m-” 

The doors slide open. 

The man in overalls is looking at you expectantly, waiting for you to get out so that he can go along with his day, just like you’re sure Pat is eager to get to his desk, get to work, because you get the feeling he’s running late as it is. You don’t want to hold him up any longer, but you spent all of last night rewatching Polygon videos, and now you’re here, and this is your office too now, after you were terrified for  _ months _ that you’d never find a job. And maybe it’s just because Pat is the first person you’ve really encountered, and you’re just projecting, and you’re nervous, but you want to tell him. You want to tell him, even if it sounds stupid. 

Pat steps out of the elevator. 

You deflate, for a moment, before following him into the hall. You expect he’ll be on his way, maybe with a brief goodbye, maybe without another word. But he pauses, looks down at you. Dark brows furrowed, an uncertain pinch to his lips. 

“Sorry,” he says again. “You were saying something?” 

The elevator dings behind you. The doors are now closed. Going down. 

You adjust the strap of your too-heavy bag, and you look up at Pat Gill. He still looks tired, sort of stressed, like he’s the kind of person who’s always spreading himself a bit too thin. But he’s waiting for you to speak, and you hope it means he’ll actually hear what you have to say. 

“I just-” You catch yourself looking into the middle-distance, somewhere at Pat’s left hip, and you drag your eyes up to his face. And you smile. You can tell it’s genuine, because you feel it reach your eyes. You hope he sees it too. 

“I’m looking forward to working with you.”

\---


End file.
